Chapter Text
Slade is a blur of orange and black and grey, pulled from the depths of Dick’s subconscious in physical, nightmarish form. Dick feels the shuddering waves over the surface of his skin, still present since Slade’s appearance, the never-ending aftermath of when one is suddenly startled. Slade’s twin blades reflect the light that flashes in his piercing eye, the flagging parts of his mask that should be a hazard but aren’t streaming behind his movements like a half mast Jolly Rodgers. This fight isn’t the snapsnapsnap of the one at his apartment, all instinct and sweat and quick thinking—Dick falls back to face Slade, the both of them still spending precious seconds planning movements.
“Here’s your pipe, papa!”
Damian is an angry bundle of green and yellow and red, jumping with the youthful energy only a Robin can bring to bear, slamming his bo down on the top of Slade’s blocking swords. Dick gives up his planning seconds early, moving in to fill Damian’s opening as Robin flips out of the way of a vicious swipe. Dick kicks, Slade blocks; Dick punches, Slade counters with a block-punch-kick combo that almost drowns Dick in déjà vu—
not like that, boy. You’ll break your hand—
but he throws it off. Fighting Slade is like fighting Bruce, because the both of them are so familiar with each other’s movements, the dance is both harder and easier: the unbreakable bond of student and teacher. Dick thinks he would get lost in the battle despite the shaking room, unable to keep his eyes off of Deathstroke, if their exchanges weren’t punctuated by a flying bird by the name of Damian.
Damian’s fighting is off. Dick barely has time to think on it, only an instinct to notice the half-step rhythm in Damian’s style is offbeat, the uncharacteristic fury on his face as he slashes at Slade. They have a history, Dick remembers, one entrenched in the League and Damian’s origins.
That’s all it is. That has to be all it is.
Dick flips out of the way of Tara’s falling rocks as Damian recedes, forced to engage Brother Blood. A flick of eyes his way tells him he’s alright for the time being before Slade descends on him with a whole new kind of ferocity. Dick blocks a flurry of strikes, flipping back on the tips of his toes before sweeping a leg low, hoping to catch Slade off guard. Slade jumps easily, a sword bearing down on Dick, and Dick slides between his—
between his legs—
and rolls through the other side, dusty on the shuddering ground, picking himself up as Slade begins to turn. He gets in his first hit, blocking Slade’s sword—but instead of letting it bounce off his gauntlet, he brings his other one up, twisting against the thin blade. It snaps and Slade lets it slip out of his hand, calculating its uselessness. Dick pulls back but he’s not fast enough for the man’s enhanced reflexes. Slade grabs his wrist and pulls him in using his body weight and brute strength. Dick barely dodges the undamaged sword, feeling it slice through the edge of his costume and draw a slip of blood. He punches down against Slade’s grip, barely breaking out, drawing back before he can make himself any more vulnerable. They circle each other again, Dick’s throat crawling with the knowledge that he just got lucky. His wrist burns even through the fabric, the yelling of the others seeming far off as Gar whoops in short triumph.
Words crawl up his tongue and fall from his lips. “Tara, huh? Some things never change, I guess.”
“Funny,” Slade says, “that was what your latest replacement said as well.”
Dick’s mind processes the possible implications in a split second; Slade charges faster, using his enhanced strength and reflexes to their fullest effect. Knuckles collide with Dick’s cheek and he bends under the pressure, pushing himself to the side and aiming a kick meant as a distraction at Slade’s face. He realizes his miscalculation as Slade’s wrist pushes Dick’s ankle to the side and then fingers close around his leg. With one rough tug Dick is jerked dangerously off balance, falling heavily towards Slade—and his fist. He tastes blood as a superpowered fist collides with his gut. It dribbles down his chin as he contorts forward.
You should be better than this, he curses at himself.
Slade leans in, a hand digging into the back of Dick’s neck. “I taught you better than this.”
Fingers twine in his hair, tugging ever so slightly. Dick can almost smell the expensive brand of aftershave Slade uses. He feels his throat close, a blue eye boring into him. His arms freeze, and for half a second he is looking up at Slade from his knees, Slade’s fingers digging into his hair, pulling him forward onto—
From far away, there is a crashing noise. The grunting yell of pain that follows is piercing and distinctly Damian, even to Dick’s cotton faded ears.
You are in the middle of a fight. You are fighting Slade. Damian is fighting Slade.
Dick knees Slade with a grunt. He can’t get much power from his position, but he manages to knee Slade hard enough to make his loose grip recede. Dick ducks down, twisting away from him, narrowly avoiding Slade’s grasping fingers. His breath comes in unnatural gasps as he drops down in a fighting stance that is second nature to him.
Slade shows his teeth in a horribly familiar smile. He obviously knows the effect he has on Dick. The sword in his hand twists with his circling steps, a thin gleam of blood still painting the blade. Dick sucks in a breath of air, and then another, feeling his racing blood steady.
You can do this. It’s just Slade.
Just—
Just Slade.
(ha.)
Slade charges in two quicks steps, his sword hissing through the air as he comes at Dick. One fist, one implement: he’ll start with a hook. Dick feels himself moving even before Slade’s movements become apparent, ignoring the first feint in favor of dodging the true punch and getting off a swift jab on Slade’s shoulder. He steps with it, barely wincing, his only hand swinging his sword. Dick ducks, feeling the air catch on his sweaty hair, going in for another strike. Slade blocks, counters, Dick slaps away his sword and tries for a more conservative kick. Slade jumps back.
I should be doing better than this. He’s playing.
Dick jumps to the side, avoiding a stalactite crashing down in a flurry of rocks. Slade moves in to take advantage but the earth splits in front of him, necessitating a jump instead. Dick makes full advantage of the opening, going after Slade with as swift one-two-three punch combination. He blocks the first two, small steps back towards the chasm bringing him closer to its depths. Dick considers cornering him but he’s not big enough,
not even now,
to keep Slade in, his only option is too keep pressing the advantage—but Slade predicts his movements, barreling into Dick and forcing him back several feet in the wake of unbearable force and unavoidable contact. He imagines the body warmth emanating from the man through his costume. Something hitches him and he really can’t breathe this time, clawing and kicking with disorganized force, all focus on getting the man off of him. His fist connects solidly with the side of Slade’s face, and he relishes the thought of a bruise forming on the man’s unblemished skin, even though Slade’s healing factor would take care of it long before it got to that point.
They are still close, now trading blows with savage intensity in a quick step rhythm, not even seconds between each reaction. It’s good, it’s fighting, it’s something Dick can handle.
If he doesn’t think about the man in front of him, breath seeming to intermingle, sweat on both of them in the room, bits of rock buried in Slade’s white hair and tapping distractingly on Dick’s shoulders and arms. There is no room for talk here, only blood and sweat and instinct, hard and calming. He can’t hold Slade for long like this, he realizes, he’s doing more defending than attacking; before long he will make a mistake, and then another.
Something flickers out of the corner of Dick’s eye and he doesn’t have time to turn before Damian is here, flying at Slade, colliding with him as Slade hisses through his teeth in frustration seconds before impact. Damian is pushed back with a swift kick, skidding to a stop, Slade flipping to consider the both of them.
Damian says nothing. His face is tight and angry—and yes, different from his usual sullen expression. Dick has only seconds to worry about it before Damian, without even a word from him, charges. Dick follows the Robin, Slade’s blade colliding with Damian’s gauntlets in an almost silent clinking. Slade manages to flip and aim a kick at Dick, which he dodges easily, countering only to be blocked. Slade moves to follow up with another kick but is interrupted by Damian, a ball of fury who moves like lightning. Damian gets off a good strike, Slade retreating, and suddenly they are pushing him back inch by inch.
Slade’s face is concentrated as he parries the two of them and they almost have the upper hand until they come at him for a painful blow, two at once. Damian nods at Dick without even making eye contact, their secret symbol ignored more than usual, and then goes for Slade’s feet. Dick goes for the head in what might be a finishing blow on anyone else, but will probably only succeed in knocking Slade down, which is a result Dick will take.
Slade expects it and suddenly he is moving too fast to react to, dodging out of Damian’s way and aiming his sword at Dick. Pebbles pour down around them as the deafening collapse of part of the cavern sounds, Damian landing awkwardly and opening his mouth in a cry Dick can’t hear. Slade’s sword cuts through the costume on his arm, spraying blood in a savage arc just under his shoulder. The pain comes seconds later as Dick lands, spinning instantly to face Slade, feeling warm liquid pouring down his arm. Behind him, Brother Blood rumbles, Damian crying out.
Dick turns to look without thought and Slade is on him, a well-aimed punch knocking his head to the side. Slade follows it up with a hook Dick manages to jump away from, arm spasming with pain, landing in a stance. Slade presses his advantage with a double kick which Dick blocks with his good arm. Slade notices—how could he not?—and then he’s pressing in on Dick’s hurt side. Dick tries to block his next kick with his sliced shoulder, but he underestimates how deep it is, the pressure sending a shockwave up his arm that results in a spurt of blood and pain. Slade kicks him in the side, throwing him hard, horribly off balance as the cavern shakes again. It unbalances Slade too, and his next flying kick is easier to dodge, inches away from Dick’s head. He lands too close, and then lands two punches before Dick can recover from his dodge. Dick’s head snaps up and his shoulder jerks with pain.
The ground under their feet is unstable. Slade doesn’t care. He throws all his weight forward against Dick, seeming more of a force of nature than Tara herself. They crash to the ground with Dick on the bottom, ribs fracturing as the air hurries out his lungs—
Slade pins him down, at least two hundred pounds of muscle, fingers pushing down on Dick’s forearms as he stares up into the unmasked face. Dick tries to pull in another breath but his body fights him, wheezing through his throat as his muscles seize against his will. Fingers press into his shoulder and wrist, legs pinning him down on either side of his chest. Disgust rises in him, choking in his throat. He should be able to throw Slade off, to try, because he can pull his own weight now, can fight with the best of them but somehow he’s still—
fourteen and slade is bearing down on him with the inevitable force of a natural disaster and dick can’t move against his limbs and his chains and slade’s fingers on his face and his neck and trailing down his chest and probing lower, digging into him, covering his lips and muffling his protests, that horrible blue eye meeting his, only pitiless lust reflected—
in Slade’s approaching face.
“You’re too easy, kid,” Slade tells him, leaning in. Dick hisses through his teeth, gulping for air, forcing his limbs with the effort of Atlas to push back against Slade. He makes his eyes glower with all the hate he can muster, which is, admittedly, quite a bit.
“Then again,” Slade muses, “it’s been some time. You’ve gone rusty without me.”
“I’m better off without you,” Dick gasps. He can feel his dizziness receding in steps, the pressure on him become just another state of being, sensation numbing in his limbs. He’s survived worse, he’ll survive this, if he can just get out from under Slade and his hated warmth. Muscles tense as he tries to wiggle away but he chokes on his own breath again, Slade still looming. He jerks his arm up but can’t quite reach Slade’s mocking face; Dick gives up on it only to seconds later push his own head forward in a vicious crack that slams into Slade’s chin, sending them both reeling. Spots dance in front of Dick’s eyes as he squirms pathetically away, but the important thing is that Slade’s fingers aren’t digging into his flesh anymore—
for a blessed five seconds until Slade collides with him again, this time with his whole body on top of Dick, breath hot on his face.
“Your successor couldn’t escape me either,” Slade rumbles, deep in his throat.
Dick freezes.
Robin.
Damian.
Damian was caught Damian was kept Damian was with Slade Damian was Damian was—
Dick’s mouth would gasp out a protest if there was any air left in it for words.
“He protested quite a lot,” Slade muses, cut only by his hitching fighting breath. “But he took it much better than you, your first time.”
It takes several seconds for Dick to fully process the meaning of the words spilling poisonous from Slade’s lips.
No. Not Damian.
Dread pulls him down to the depths of the earth and makes his muscles lethargic and his consciousness horrified. If he had known—he never would’ve let Damian near Slade, he should’ve known the man was behind this, should’ve never let Damian off on his own. And now…
And now Damian has had to face the worst of it all, because Dick couldn’t keep him safe.
“Don’t worry,” Slade murmurs, almost—sickeningly—affectionate. “He was a poor replacement for you, kid.”
Dick wants to cry, suddenly, staring up at the earthen ceiling and at the man he hates.
Replacement, replacement, replacement.
Damian.
And suddenly, as if in a dream, Damian is there, red and black and still alive, feet slamming into Slade’s shoulders. Slade curses, falling to the side, flipping up and Dick has to shout his own mind into gear and stumble on terribly weak legs. He expects a half mocking comment as Damian and Slade stand face to face but Damian’s eyes are filled with a rage that is second only to Dick’s own emotions.
They pale in comparison to Tara’s.
“Slade!” The broken cry echoes through the cavern as Tara Markov hovers on power, traitor and child, tears dripping from her chin and eyes and cheeks. Rocks the size of heavy bookshelves orbit her with terrifying power. The cave trembles.
Slade’s lips twist into a frustrated picture and then seconds later into a calculating one—
“Tara, listen, this is all a—”
The rocks fly at him with Tara’s yells and he curses under his breath, not quite loud enough for Dick to hear his words. He jumps aside with superhuman speed, Tara following him with anger in her heart. Dick feels her name on his lips, unspoken, just another victim of Slade’s. Rocks fall from the ceiling even more now, Tara hurling them at Slade with furious half-accuracy.
Dick feels his fingers reach out after her, almost on instinct, because Tara...
Tara is just another child destroyed by Slade Wilson, one more Dick couldn’t save, and he can’t find it in himself to blame her for anything at all. He calls her name but she can’t hear and doesn’t care, so wrapped up in her anger and hate. Dick lurches after her, halting as he feels a hand on his arm. Damian stands, balancing somewhat uneasily. He shakes his head.
Dick tries to move forward but the earth cracks in front of him, sending him pulling back with a shock as he stares into incredible darkness.
Brother Blood lunges again, half-lost, Raven screaming as her father pulls himself from her mind in a shadowy facsimile of a true demon, still dangerous enough to defeat a mortal playing at god. The cavern shakes, rocks hailing down on the groups, Tara and Slade slipping further into their dangerous dance and further into the depths of the cavern. Dick is rocked back, landing hard with a wince. More of the cave tumbles down around the group.
“We have to get out of here.” Kori is grabbing at Dick’s arm and he shakes his head to clear it, Damian following as the Titans recede against the tide of falling stone. There’s no way to advance, but Gar seems intent on trying, flickering between forms as he tries to find his way to Tara. He yells her name over and over, the sound becoming one with the crashing of the cave. Dick yells after him in turn, moving backwards as best he can, dancing away from Tara’s unstoppable fury.
Blue Beetle comes to join them, muttering to his alien attachment as Kori flies off to pull Gar away. He struggles halfheartedly against her.
Tara is beyond saving. The glint in her eyes tells Dick all he needs to know, confirms every fear as the place comes down around them, even as he moves to the exit with Damian. Dust covers everything, thick air sucked in and choked on, a cloud of ash and regret.
Tara closes herself in with tears on her face and Dick hopes against instinct that Slade will be buried with her, never returning to haunt any of them again.
(But of course he knows better).